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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28762095">Waiting</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingHim17/pseuds/trustingHim17'>trustingHim17</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, Illnesses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 07:33:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,546</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28762095</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingHim17/pseuds/trustingHim17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Waiting was always harder than doing. Coincides with chapter 5&amp;6 of Cause of Death</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Waiting</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Being a landlady to the famous detective meant she had grown used to a good many things, but the eerie silence reigning in the rooms above manifested in stark contrast to her own thoughts.</p>
<p>
  <em>“Jenny! Breathe, Jenny!”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Watson. Watson, answer me!”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“JENNY!”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“WATSON!”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>The horrible thump of a limp body hitting the ground.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>The undeniable sound of dragging a body across the floor.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Get mother! She can’t breathe!”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Send for Agar, Mrs. Hudson! Allergic reaction!”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Wheezing—audible from across the room—then heavy, dead silence.</em>
</p>
<p>No. No, Doctor Agar said he would be fine, that he would wake eventually. He wouldn’t—it wouldn’t end like her sister. They had medicine for it now. Mr. Holmes had said Doctor Agar had brought adrenaline.</p>
<p>But that made no difference to the fear, the worry plaguing her.</p>
<p>The hardest part had been having to go to Lizzie’s. They had not known about allergies so many years ago, but her sister remembered that day just as well as she did. Lizzie had let her pace the sitting room, an understanding presence when she could not stop herself from explaining everything that had happened—some of it multiple times—and how <em>loud</em> the doctor’s breathing had been, and the minutes had dragged by. Was the doctor alright? Had they caught the man? Mr. Holmes had not even said his name, only that he was a murderer and they needed to empty the house, that he and the inspector would take care of Watson.</p>
<p>And the doctor had never moved, that labored wheeze seeming to fill the entire room with fear. She had not known about adrenaline, had not known how or if Doctor Agar would be able to do anything.</p>
<p>Could only pray that this would not end the same as the similar day so many years before, when Jenny had tried to get a bee out of the house only minutes before beginning to wheeze. Even the understanding in Lizzie’s words and expression could not ease the fear driving its way through her chest, and she had paced the sitting room. Back and forth. Back and forth.</p>
<p>Waiting was always harder than doing.</p>
<p>Back and forth. Back and forth.</p>
<p>She had nearly taken her sister up on the offer of using the kitchen when young Tim had finally arrived, announcing that “Mr. Holmes said it was safe now,” and she had rushed home.</p>
<p>But safe did not mean over. The doctor was better, certainly—almost anything was better than the heavy, labored wheeze that had chased her down those steps a few hours before—but he still was not <em>awake</em>. He was not <em>well</em>.</p>
<p>He was <em>alive</em>, however, and that was all that mattered.</p>
<p>Or so she told herself.</p>
<p>“Watson?” Holmes’ voice carried faintly down the steps to where she stood, listening. “Watson, can you hear me?”</p>
<p>No answer.</p>
<p>“You need to wake up.”</p>
<p>Yes. Yes, he did, but silence was the only reply, and the detective’s sigh a moment later said that the doctor had sunk back into sleep. She took herself back to her kitchen.</p>
<p>The doctor had done that several times, woken enough for his breathing to change yet never moved. She had seen it once, had quickly called Mr. Holmes back, thinking the doctor was waking, but nothing had happened. The doctor did not open his eyes.</p>
<p>John, she allowed herself in her thoughts. She had been trying to get her boys to switch to Christian names for years, and while Mr. Holmes never would, it had become a game of sorts with the doctor. She knew he only used her title out of mischief, and while she could not use his Christian name in front of others—or even to his face, if he did not call her Martha first—she could in her own thoughts.</p>
<p>John had not woken, and it was hours after noon on the second day.</p>
<p>She opened the oven, taking out the finished cream cake and setting it aside to cool before putting a pie in to start cooking. She needed to start supper soon, but that would not take long, and she would not need the oven. The pie would be able to cook while she worked.</p>
<p>Mr. Holmes rarely ate very much, but he had barely eaten anything at all in the last two days, too focused on watching his friend to notice the hunger making his stomach growl. She had had to remind him of his promise for every meal, and she knew that would only continue. Her more eccentric tenant would have no interest in food until the doctor had woken—and then only when John was awake enough to scowl at him.</p>
<p>The promise Mr. Holmes had made in trade so many years ago was the only thing she had to make him eat, and she would use it whenever she had to. Skipping meals was not healthy, and he could not take care of the doctor if he made himself sick—something which did not even account for what John would do if the detective broke that promise here, in the flat. It was one thing to break it when food was scarce, when a case gone wrong left them stranded. It was quite another to break it at home, and neither of them wanted to know just how the doctor would react. John had learned far too much about hiding his thoughts after Mary died, and there was no way of knowing if those same thoughts would make him withdraw again. The longer they went without one of <em>those</em> days—or weeks—the better.</p>
<p>Mr. Holmes’ voice carried down the stairs again, unintelligible through distance though she knew what it said, and she froze, listening. She did not need to understand his words to know that John had roused, and she would know by his tone if John had roused for real. Was it finally over?</p>
<p>No. The detective continued talking, but now it was the ramble to fill the silence rather than an attempt to coax the doctor to wake. She turned back to the bowl in front of her, trying to suppress the worry that he would never wake by busying her hands. The Irregulars had been asking for sugar biscuits the other day, and she measured the dry ingredients before stirring them together. She could make a batch before she needed to take up a tray of the bread, meat, and cheese that was the only thing Mr. Holmes would eat with all his focus on the doctor.</p>
<p>She had left the eggs, butter, and oil on another table, and after sifting and mixing the flour with the other dry ingredients, she picked up the bowl to move across the kitchen, still listening to the occasional rambling tones upstairs.</p>
<p>The sitting room fell silent halfway across the kitchen, however, and she sighed.</p>
<p>The doctor needed to wake up.</p>
<p>Sugar biscuits. She forced her thoughts to the task at hand. She could not sit still with the worry plaguing her, and the children wanted sugar biscuits. Easy to make and needing very few ingredients, those children so infrequently had access to <em>food</em>, much less a sweet such as a biscuit. She could make a batch for them to share, and it would give her something to do while they waited.</p>
<p>Waiting was so much harder than doing, and if she could not do anything about the horrible silence upstairs, she would do something in her kitchen. Otherwise, she would end up pacing the bedroom or climbing the stairs to make sure the doctor still breathed. It was hard enough waiting to hear Mr. Holmes’ low tones carry through the floor, talking, pleading, ordering the doctor to open his eyes. She could not wait <em>and</em> do nothing.</p>
<p>Would the doctor <em>ever</em> wake? Surely after so long, it would not end like her sister. He would not silently slip away after he survived the breathing problems of yesterday—would he? Her thoughts ran in circles, chasing each other in fear, worry, and memory and occupying her thoughts to prevent her from watching her step.</p>
<p>Her foot came down on something oddly shaped, and a cry of surprise more than pain escaped when her foot turned beneath her, dumping her under the table and making her lose her grip on the bowl in her hand.</p>
<p>The mixing bowl flew through the air as she fell sideways, sending flour everywhere before it clattered to the floor, and she had only a moment to hope the flour would not reach the oven before the large cloud ignited with a pop and an abrupt <em>whoosh!</em> Flames raced through the air above her.</p>
<p>The table protected her from the worst of the heat, but she still felt it slap the bare skin of her arms before just as quickly cooling. She cautiously crawled clear of the table as footsteps bolted for the stairs.</p>
<p>“Get back upstairs, Mr. Holmes,” she called, surveying the damage. “I’m fine. I just crisped my kitchen, as the doctor calls it.”</p>
<p>The footsteps calmed, no longer bolting though they continued toward the kitchen, and Mr. Holmes stopped in the doorway a moment later.</p>
<p>“Mrs. Hudson?”</p>
<p>“I’m fine,” she said again, waving off the concerned gaze as she noted how far the large cloud of flour had spread before igniting. A triple batch of sugar biscuits apparently used enough flour to crisp—her mother would say burn, but she liked the doctor’s word better—an entire kitchen. The Irregulars would have to wait another day for their sweet.</p>
<p>“What happened?”</p>
<p>She brushed off the question. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll have supper up for you shortly. Has the doctor woken yet?”</p>
<p>She did not think he had, but there was always the chance…</p>
<p>He shook his head. “I thought for a moment, but no. He went back to sleep a minute ago.”</p>
<p>A sigh escaped as she picked up the bowl. He needed to wake up.</p>
<p>Mr. Holmes stared at her for a minute longer before glancing at the mess, and she knew when he spotted the cream cake on the counter.</p>
<p>A grin twitched his mouth, and he took a step closer to the cooling cake as she reached for the closest drawer. “Stay out of that.”</p>
<p>“But Mrs. Hudson!”</p>
<p>She tried to smother a smirk. He could not have it yet, no matter that she had made it for him. It needed to finish cooling, and she needed to sprinkle sugar over the top. She would bring it up with supper, and no sooner.</p>
<p>“You leave that cream cake alone. You know better than to raid my kitchen.”</p>
<p>“Just a piece, Mrs. Hudson. Please?”</p>
<p>“No.” She grabbed a spatula, and he quickly took a step back as she covered a grin with a glare. She had chased him out of her kitchen with a spatula before, and she knew he did not want a repeat of the doctor’s many comments over the next few days. John did not need to be awake to hear about it, and the detective knew it. She raised the spatula, and he made doubly sure that she was uninjured, cast one last glance at the cream cake, and turned to go back upstairs.</p>
<p>The cake was supposed to have been a surprise, and now that he had seen it, he would be even more surprised when it appeared on his supper tray. She put the spatula back in the drawer with a grin and turned to take the cake from the pan.</p>
<p>A loud thump sounded from the sitting room, and Mr. Holmes sprinted up the same stairs he had just run down. Her grin widened as the questioning tones changed to relief, and a minute later, another, much quieter voice answered the repeated questions.</p>
<p>Finally.</p>
<p>The second voice slowly strengthened, and while she could not make out the words, she did not care—just as she did not care that he would probably be asleep again by the time she took up the tray. He was awake. <em>That</em> was all that mattered. He had woken, and all would be fine. He would not end up like her sister.</p>
<p>Silence fell again as she climbed the stairs, and Mr. Holmes looked up from his place next to the settee as she opened the door, the pure relief in his gaze announcing what she already knew.</p>
<p>“What was the noise?” she asked instead.</p>
<p>He affected an irritated scowl. “He tried to reach the glass of water, knocking the book off the table and making himself faint in the process. I reached him as he slid towards the floor.”</p>
<p>She felt a smile try to break free and focused on the tray to hide it. Her boys were far too alike for their own good. He would have known the absence was momentary, but they both hated being ill, hated waiting for help. It did not surprise her that the doctor had tried to get something himself instead of waiting for his friend to return to the sitting room.</p>
<p>“Did he eat before he went back to sleep?” she asked as she replenished the simple foods laid out on the table. How long could she distract him with questions before he noticed the cream cake in the middle of the dishes?</p>
<p>“Some,” he answered. “He was too tired to eat much.”</p>
<p>“It will get better. Wasn’t he tired for about a day last time?”</p>
<p>He glanced up at her, surprised that she knew this was the second time chloral hydrate had caused a problem, but made no comment.</p>
<p>“He was, and this was a larger dose.”</p>
<p>So it would probably last longer, but at least he had woken. She could already see a difference in his breathing. Only a few hours ago, the nearly silent breathing was closer to the heaviness of the reaction than the deep, even breaths of sleep she saw now.</p>
<p>“He recognized the explosion,” Holmes said a moment later, and her gaze shot up from setting the silverware in its place. “One of the first things he asked was if you were alright, and the phrase you used amused him. Is there a story behind that?”</p>
<p>She shook her head. “If there is, I don’t know it. He called it ‘crisping a kitchen’ when he did it all those years ago, and it stayed with me.”</p>
<p>His gaze focused on the dishes piled on the table, finally noticing his own hunger now that his worry had eased, and he pulled himself to his feet as she picked up the tray.</p>
<p>She knew the moment he noticed the cake. His surprised, “Mrs. Hudson!” followed her down the stairs, and she laughed. All was right with her boys again—or it would be soon, at least.</p>
<p>Her laughter faded as she surveyed the kitchen, however. Her mother had warned her how hard it was to clean up a flour explosion, but the doctor had cleaned up most of the mess when he had done it, years ago. Burnt flour went <em>everywhere</em>. No wonder her mother had warned her to be careful.</p>
<p>Ah, well. A crisped kitchen was a small price to pay for having the doctor awake again.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I always love comments :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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